


The Only President Who Was Also Chief Justice of the Supreme Court

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: One-Term Presidents [1]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Body Swap, F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Zelda loses a bet, and the stakes are higher than she’d anticipated.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith, Hilda Spellman/Zelda Spellman, Hilda Spellman/Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: One-Term Presidents [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674799
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	The Only President Who Was Also Chief Justice of the Supreme Court

**Author's Note:**

> March group chat challenge: body swap

_The Night Before_

Zelda doesn’t often appear at these Church of Night social activities. A dark scripture study or an orgy, sure, but these booze-fueled, raunchy-talking high-stakes poker tournaments shrouded in billows of cigar smoke they call Fellowships. No. Distasteful and heavy on the male ratio. Not that she doesn’t appreciate some testosterone once in a while. Just in such high doses without a clear outlet like screaming about a bad ref call or a good bout of shirtless, oiled up wrestling can get to being stifling and explosive. 

But Hilda’s been disappearing several nights a week with vague explanations, and Zelda’s become a bit lonely, a bit restless.

So here she is sitting on Father Blackwood’s lap, quite drunk and more antagonistic than usual, getting dealt a very bad poker hand that she nevertheless places a very large bet on.

The only one at the table who doesn’t drop out is some man she doesn’t know from the Church of the Serpent from upstate New York or some other podunk nowhere.

“I know your sister, you know,” that man says a little suggestively, moving his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. He’s got an anachronistic walrus mustache like a fat and corrupt early 1900s politician. 

Zelda does not roll her eyes because she knows that she’s too drunk for it. The action would certainly make her dizzy and she doesn’t want the indignity of having everyone see her slide off Blackwood’s lap.

“I don’t doubt it. Everyone knows Hilda,” she says. “But I don’t for a minute believe what you’re implying. She’s out of your league, William Howard Taft.” 

He laughs and ups the bet. She sees and also raises.

“Never meant to imply that.” He looks at her, chews his cigar, throws in another chip. “Just that she’s a much better poker player than you. You could learn a lot from her, in fact.”

“Is that so?” She slides the rest of her chips into the pot. He laughs again, shows his hand: Kings over tens. And she’s got… well she could’ve sworn she’d had a royal flush, but one of her spades is, upon further inspection, actually a club. So. Nothing. 

He reaches for the pot but then pauses.

“I don’t think I want your money. I think you need a lesson instead.”

She does roll her eyes this time, and just as she had suspected, is immediately dizzy and discombobulated. A feeling of sliding and spinning and grabbing for anything to steady her.

And then blackness.

xxx

_Early Morning_

It’s dark, and Zelda is hot.

Her head is not pounding. There’s a mysterious, dull, satisfied thud between her legs, but she doesn’t feel hungover.

She blinks a few times and swallows. Her mouth doesn’t taste like stale whiskey but a hint of mouthwash and mostly just the stickiness of sleep.

She’s so hot. Sweating. She finally registers why: she’s the little spoon to someone generating a lot of body heat. Someone with what feels like a really nice rack pressed against her back.

She thinks back to last night. What women had been there, and of those, which of them would she have taken to bed? Shirley Jackson, hard no. That frumpily dressed but amply endowed blonde from some posh Connecticut coven, maybe. Although there’s not quite enough flesh on the arms holding her to suggest that woman.

She turns over, hoping her eyes have adjusted to the darkness so that she can discern a face. As she does so, there’s an unfamiliar ache in her lumbars. She wonders if she’d hit something wrong on her fall from Blackwood’s lap.

But all thoughts abruptly halt. She’d recognize those cheekbones anywhere—even in dim lighting after a long night of carousing. That Wardwell woman!

“What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing in my bed, you shady second-rate sorceress slut?!” But as she’s saying it, there’s the awful dawning realization that this is not her bedroom—and it’s no room in the Church of Night, either—and also that there’s something wrong with her voice. 

Mary Wardwell’s eyelids flutter, and a sleepy smile turns just the corners of her mouth as her arms tighten around Zelda.

Zelda is halfway to panicking. Another awful dawning realization. 

That sound that had come out of her. It had been Hilda’s dulcet British tones.

Fuck and a half surely not. Surely bargain-brand William Howard Taft hadn’t.

She inspects her teeth with her tongue. Unholy shit. A gap between top central incisors. She squeezes her arms in under Mary’s and runs her hands over herself. Oh. 

Oh. 

This is not her body. Those are not her breasts; this is not her torso. And that’s certainly not her bush.

She’s now three-quarters to panicking, not sure where to put her hands that isn’t her sister’s naked flesh or Mary Wardwell’s naked flesh. She wiggles her hands between the side of her new face and the plush cool pillow ultimately, now wondering how she will extricate herself.

Mary again shifts unconsciously, a knee sliding in as she pushes in closer, nuzzles into Zelda-not-Zelda’s hairline.

And the dull thudding between her legs sharpens a tad. Her hips buck of their own volition, and Mary responds. Mary’s eyes remain closed, but she maneuvers them both so that she’s on top, knee insistent and focused. 

Zelda’s having that same old problem with her hands and lays them flat on the sheets either side of her hips. Mary’s knee speeds up as she says,

“Did you just call me a slut?”

“You must have been dreaming,” Zelda says with Hilda’s voice. Mary’s eyes fly open, and they’re wild but fond:

“Must’ve been. Considering a slut gets fucked by many individuals. And yet here I am, fucking only you.”

Mary’s face descends, and she’s nibbling at Zelda’s neck. But it’s not Zelda’s neck exactly. Because Zelda, in her own actual body, is not so ticklish. Hilda’s body arches and writhes in a way that Zelda’s body would not be capable of as she would not consider this quite as arousing as Hilda’s body does.

So this is where Hilda has been all those unexplained evenings. Good for her. But also. Really? Wardwell?

As Mary’s left hand descends under the covers and traces the body beneath her, final destination clear, Zelda feels a sudden pang of guilt grinding against the elation.

As delicious as this is, it isn’t for her. This is supposed to be between Hilda and Wardwell. 

She thinks about the kind of excuse Hilda might use. She decides on:

“I’ve got an early morning ahead of me, pet. Must dash.”

If she’d been in her own body, the forearm against Mary’s chest for leverage and the subsequent roll she had executed would’ve landed her firmly on her feet at the side of the queen bed. But she’s not as knowledgeable about how Hilda’s body might work, so she’s suspended awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. She swings a leg until she finds solid hardwood and plants that foot, brings the other foot down, too.

She just stands for a second, adjusting to the different weight distribution.

“You really have to go so soon? This isn’t about what I said last night, is it?” Mary says, propped on an elbow.

Hmm yikes. Had they had a fight?

“Of course not,” Zelda says as her scanning now nearsighted eyes finally find a pile of Hilda garments. “Just have a lot to accomplish today.” She begins dressing, stifling her distaste at the choice of clothing Hilda had worn presumably fully knowing she’d end up having sex, and Mary is still watching and maybe even pouting.

“Still on for dinner tonight, then?” Mary says. Uhm. Better placate, not stir up anything. Then again, maybe Hilda deserves some apology flowers—ooh or jewelry—from this woman.

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Zelda says as Hilda.

xxx

_The Night Before_

Hilda’s submerged to the neck in Mary’s hot tub. She’s fiddling with the fringe at the bottom hem of her bathing suit. Mary had said she’d had something she wanted to discuss and then had gone to get them glasses of wine, and Hilda’s fretting a tad about what this discussion might entail. She hasn’t even told Zelda they’re… doing whatever they’re doing. 

She hopes it’s not some declaration. Hopefully it’ll just be about how to can peaches or something similar.

Mary saunters out of the sliding glass door and kisses her soundly on the mouth before she hands Hilda a flute of cold duck and then carefully lowers herself into the foam. She’d also brought the bottle out and has placed it on the edge of the hot tub, and it must have been some kind of magic how she juggled all three items in one hand to get out of the sliding door. 

Hilda smiles at that. Mary’s weird and none too trustworthy, but at least she’s very talented with her hands.

“I’ve been wanting to float an idea past you. But I’m not sure how you’ll take it,” Mary says. She sips at her flute as she seems to wait for some confirmation of engagement.

“Never know till you try,” Hilda says.

“Witch society is not exactly like mortal society in many ways.”

Hilda furrows her brow, says,

“Obviously.”

“Not the same morals. Not the same taboos,” Mary says in a measured way.

“I’m not interested in having long pig for dinner tomorrow night, if that’s what you’re leading up to.” 

Mary laughs, and Hilda takes a drink. 

Hilda’s always rather wanted to rob a bank. Maybe that’s where this is going: some titillating crime.

“No. I know your preferences about that sort of thing. What I don’t know as much about as I’d like are your preferences about… women,” Mary says. 

Hilda cocks her head, studies Mary’s face, which is regular strange Mary—a face that is so expressive yet gives nothing away as to actual thought or feeling.

“You don’t know about my preferences? We… had ‘s-e-x’ twenty minutes ago…?”

Mary laughs again and refills both their glasses, says,

“Yes. But. Are you aware that Zelda wants you so badly she can’t stand herself?”

“Zelda Newtfoot of Ponca City, Oklahoma? Haven’t seen her since William Howard Taft was sworn in as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”

Mary huffs and splashes her. Hilda holds her flute aloft so as not to get hot tub water in it and splutters in protest. Before Hilda can start an admonishment, Mary says,

“Poor Ms. Newtfoot probably also languishes in unrequited longing for you. But I’m referring to Zelda Spellman of Greendale, Massachusetts.”

“You’re obscene!”

“And I haven’t even pitched my idea yet,” Mary says and then downs her glass, places it next to the bottle, sidles closer, begins caressing Hilda’s thigh under the water. “Not only does she ache for you, but also you harbor the same feelings for her. I don’t begrudge you, and I’m not jealous. She’s a very attractive woman. Not my usual type, but that’s neither here nor there.” Hilda is gaping and reeling, but Mary’s smooth and unflustered, just so matter of fact. She continues, “So here’s my offer: I’m eighty percent confident I could seduce her into a threesome. That is if you wanted to explore your repressed yearning with a third party buffer.”

Hilda gulps her sparkling wine. She’s never told a single soul about these desires she’s hidden for decades, centuries maybe even. She’s tamped them down so far that she’s sometimes not even sure they’re real or a recurring dream she’s had since her hormones had first started raging at puberty. And here’s weirdo Mary, whom she’s been sleeping with for the better part of two months, dragging out the dirtiest of her laundry so casually over a bottle of wine, unbothered. No, not just unbothered. Into it, excited by it. There’s a lot there. Hilda says finally,

“Give me a few days to think about it?” 

Mary says,

“As long as you still get naked for me in the meantime.”

“Maybe if you get me drunk enough.”

xxx

_Early Morning_

It’s dark, and Hilda is chilly.

Mary usually generates so much body heat—a supernatural amount of body heat—but the woman currently spooning her is a moderate temperature. 

There’s a satin top sheet covering them, and a lumpy mattress beneath them.

Mary’s sheets are a soft flannel, and Mary’s mattress is firm and uniform.

Her head is pounding, and her mouth tastes like stale whiskey. 

But last night she’d had at the very most one bottle of sparkling wine before she’d brushed, flossed, and mouthwashed and fallen asleep in Mary’s embrace in Mary’s bed.

This can’t be real. This has got to be some kind of anxiety dream.

She closes her eyes and thinks about her spring plans for her greenhouse until she drifts off.

But when Hilda awakens an indeterminate amount of time later, the environmental conditions are the same kind of disconcerting as they had been previously.

She runs her fingertips over the woman's arm enclosed around her waist. To her horror, this arm is not Mary’s svelte, taut muscles. In fact, now that she’s thinking about it, the breasts pressed against her back are too large. The breath against the back of her neck comes at unfamiliar intervals.

“Excuse me, but where am I and who are you?” Hilda says.

Hilda gasps. The voice that had come out hadn’t been hers but a terse American accent. So much like Zelda.

She turns, hoping to get a good glimpse of whoever is embracing her.

She doesn’t recognize the face. An oval face, pretty, with full pert pink lips, framed in blonde curls. 

The woman’s hazel eyes are wide and startling as she says,

“I shouldn’t be so disappointed that you don’t remember me.” She sounds like a Kennedy.

Hilda blinks rapidly, says,

“Sorry, darling.” Her r’s are so hard in her ears. So American. So Zelda. Suspiciously hard and Zelda.

She’s heard of this sort of thing, but she’d never thought it might happen to her. Can’t think of any reason this might have happened to her. But the signs are there. She’s got to know for sure, though.

She inspects her teeth with her tongue. Hell’s half acre! No telltale gap in the top central incisors. She runs a tentative hand down her naked body. Oh.

Oh. 

This is not her body. Those are not her breasts; this is not her torso. And that’s certainly not her bush.

She doesn’t know how or why, but her consciousness is in Zelda’s body.

There’s a fleeting thought that maybe Mary has had something to do with it: she’s a powerful witch apparently with a lot of hard truths to prove. But she dismisses that theory almost immediately because she’s under the impression that Mary likes her and respects her, would never subject her to this without explicit warning. But maybe their discussion had been the warning…? Then again, no. Mary’s m.o. is more obvious, more direct.

Whatever this is it’s Zelda’s fault.

The woman flicks on a lamp, and Hilda sees her more clearly: a buxom blonde laid out luxuriously on satin sheets.

Hilda shivers at the sight, Mary’s words about Zelda reverberating in her brain. The woman is so like her in so many ways. Disconcertingly like her.

She thinks about what Zelda might say in this situation in order to extricate herself. She says,

“It’s been fun.”

Her newly perfect eyesight scans the room and quickly finds a pile of Zelda garments. She dresses quickly, stifling her distaste at the choice of clothing Zelda had worn presumably fully knowing she’d end up fucking a stranger and then having to haphazardly put her clothes back on in bad lighting.

xxx

_Later That Morning_

Zelda had tried her own sashaying, but it just hadn’t worked out. She’s almost used to Hilda’s natural quick shuffling gait as she enters their home. She’s glad for the muscle memory of it. One less thing to worry about, at least.

But she’s not prepared for the sight of herself at the stove.

Zelda in Hilda’s body sees a Zelda in a ratty, ill-fitting Hilda nightdress and Hilda apron flipping pancakes. She cuts quite a figure plating them. Not as pretty and organic a picture as Hilda doing the same in her own body, but.

That other Zelda body looks up. Zelda knows definitely now that there’s been a switch somehow, that some 27th president of the United States looking bastard had upended her life, and from the look on her own face across the room, she can tell her sister has also discovered the predicament:

“You feel like shit,” Zelda’s mouth says. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” 

Zelda in Hilda’s body blinks a few times. It’s quite an adjustment to get a dressing down from yourself in person rather than just the mirror. But she holds Hilda’s head high and says,

“Let she who is without fucking someone questionable cast the first stone.” 

Hilda huffs and gesticulates with the spatula, but she’s not quite used to the different grip strength, and the thing flies out of her hand. She reaches to catch it but overshoots because of her new vertical leap and arm span and ends up sprawled on the kitchen island.

Zelda says,

“I do plan on fixing this somehow, so I’d prefer if you didn’t damage me too much.”

Hilda scrambles back to standing and spits errant strands of red hair out of her mouth, says,

“I was under the impression your body enjoyed a little damage from time to time.”

“A low blow, sister.” She goes to flip her hair dismissively but doesn’t find the right amount of it to execute this effectively. She ends up just putting her hands in the pockets of Hilda’s cardigan.

Hilda bites Zelda’s lip so she doesn’t laugh at the display. And then remembers she’s cross and says,

“No lower a blow than insinuating about my love life. I’m not the one having drunken no doubt very sloppy anonymous intercourse with women who look like—” She bites her tongue this time to stop herself. Perhaps not a great time to bring up this aspect. They’ve got bigger things to deal with without muddling their relationship.

Hilda watches her own eyebrows shoot up in a very Zelda way, but the effect isn’t quite the same as when Zelda’s face does it. It’s more comical than condescending. She’s suddenly glad she’s never had to be the stern sister. No one would’ve taken her seriously: her face just isn’t right for it.

Zelda says,

“Women who look like what, exactly?”

Hilda bends over to pick up the spatula to give her a second to think. She decides on,

“Who look like they rent by the half hour.” But she winces. It’s not a nice thing to say, and she doesn’t really believe it. That woman had seemed perfectly lovely.

Zelda narrows her eyes. Again not the same effect as with her own face, but Hilda knows Zelda knows that’s not what her original thought had been. 

Zelda crosses the kitchen, aiming to hop onto a stool. It takes a little more hopping than she’d anticipated, but she does achieve her goal on the second try.

“I’m going to ignore how much of a hypocrite you are because it’s more imperative to come up with a game plan than to fight with you.” She reaches into Hilda’s cardigan pocket and belatedly realizes there will not be any cigarettes stashed there.

Hilda watches this and rummages in a drawer, slides half a soft pack and a matchbook across the counter to Zelda.

Zelda lights up and coughs violently at first but sticks with it as she’s running through scenarios in her brain.

Hilda’s watching all this play out on her own face and although she doesn’t really consciously want to, she reaches out and takes the cigarette. Three drags are enough for her hungover current body to tingle a bit, and she hands it back. She says,

“Zelds. What exactly occurred last night?”

Zelda ashes into a nearby teacup and looks into her own eyes:

“I lost at five-card draw.” 

Hilda cocks Zelda’s head in question, and Zelda thinks it looks stupid. She’s glad she’s always had to be the stern sister. She continues,

“I lost to this first provisional governor of Cuba lookalike bag of dicks who thought I should be more like you and apparently cursed us accordingly.”

“Excuse me, what?” Hilda says. “How Long will we be like this, then? Is it some Little Mermaid operation where we have three days to kiss our respective true loves or we’re like this forever?”

“I don’t know, Hildegard! I was drunk, and he didn’t provide an instruction manual!”

Hilda takes the cigarette again and puffs furiously once, twice, hands it back, shakes Zelda’s head, says,

“You just are fundamentally unable to play nice, aren’t you?” 

xxx

_Just Before Noon_

Hilda in Zelda’s body is in a tight but conservative black crepe dress, and Zelda in Hilda’s body is in an orange flannel button up and a brown wool skirt. They’re both equally uncomfortable mentally and aesthetically—although the bodies don’t seem to mind—but the least uncomfortable they can currently manage. They’d helped each other as much as they had been able, had finally agreed upon these rather neutral ensembles.

They walk into the Church of Night a unit of solidarity.

They’ve rehearsed in the car on the way over, and they are as ready as they’ll ever be.

Hilda as Zelda slinks into Blackwood’s office.

Blackwood’s liquid black eyes lewdly roam Zelda’s body. Hilda finds it difficult not to gag at this, straightens Zelda’s spine even more imperiously. She knows she’s enacting a caricature of Zelda, but it’s all she can do not to tell him to whistle up a rope.

“Quite a night you had last evening. Have you come to give confession?” Blackwood says suggestively.

“Not yet, Father,” Hilda says, clipped and terse. “Is that gentleman from the Church of the Serpent still here? I’d like to speak with him.”

“He’s long gone, my dear. On a tour of the Continent, I think.” Blackwood has stood and is rounding his desk, a very lascivious look on his face.

Hilda is halfway to panicking. They hadn’t practiced for this. She says,

“Thank you. That’ll be all.” And she rushes out, barely tripping over Zelda’s legs and high heels.

She runs right into herself in the corridor. The two bodies collide and bounce off each other and each brace themselves against opposing walls.

“Well?” Zelda says.

“He’s not here. Location unknown,” Hilda says.

“Satan bless it!” Zelda says.

Hilda straightens Zelda’s dress and says,

“Plan B?”

xxx

_Just After Noon_

They walk into Baxter High a unit of solidarity.

They’ve also rehearsed this one in the car.

Zelda as Hilda slinks into Mary’s office.

Mary’s liquid blue eyes lewdly roam Hilda’s body. Zelda likes it. She likes being looked at that way in general, but she also likes that someone is and has been appreciating Hilda. Hilda deserves it, in her book. She has to consciously stop herself from preening under this appreciative gaze as it’s not something Hilda would reasonably do. She steels herself and says the rehearsed line:

“I need you. Can you take a half day?” Once it’s come out of Hilda’s mouth she realizes she’s flubbed it. It was supposed to have been, “I need to speak with you.” But as it stands in the heavy, damp, radiator-heat air, it’s something different entirely, and Mary stands and rounds her desk, a very lascivious look on her face. 

Lucifer below, Mary’s beautiful. And she’s looking at the woman she believes to be Hilda as if she wants to devour her. Mary says,

“I can take a half day if I can get this paperwork done.”

Mary props herself against the desk right in front of Zelda as Hilda. If Zelda were to try she could see all the way up Mary’s skirt. Mary concludes, 

“But I can’t very well get anything done with you distracting me this way.”

Zelda shifts Hilda’s weight and clears Hilda’s throat, says,

“I’d never want to separate you from your duties. I’ll be waiting for you at my place when you’ve finished.”

“Your place?” Mary says with raised eyebrows. 

“Yes,” Zelda says.

“So you’ve had enough time to think about it,” Mary says.

Zelda doesn’t know what she’s talking about but says with Hilda’s voice,

“Don’t keep me waiting too long.” 

And Zelda exits.

xxx

_Early Afternoon_

Zelda as Hilda is pacing the foyer and smoking a cigarette.

Hilda as Zelda is sitting in the breakfast nook working on a needlepoint.

The doorbell chimes. Zelda looks out the peephole and then rushes to Hilda and shoves the cigarette between her fingers and hastily sits and takes up the needlepoint.

Hilda as Zelda opens the door for Mary, says,

“So glad you could make it.”

Mary stands at the threshold and looks at them each in turn, says,

“The pleasure’s all mine that you two could come to an agreement.” She shrugs off her coat and hangs it on a hook in the hall. And then she says, “I don’t suppose you want to do this in the kitchen…?”

Zelda as Hilda, no longer pretending at the needlepoint but merely holding the foreign object says,

“I don’t see why not.”

But there are tendrils of comprehension and dread at Hilda's brain in Zelda’s body. She shouts,

“No! It’s not that—it’s—”

Both Mary and her own eyes look at her, penetrating for different reasons.

“Sister. This was your idea,” Zelda says in Hilda’s voice.

Mary laughs at that, says,

“Just as I suspected.”

Hilda’s frustrated for so many reasons at once. She shouts:

“No, bless it! Both of you shut up and listen to me!”

xxx

_Late Afternoon_

They’ve reversed it. Their combined powers, focused on one goal, have proven more than worthy.

They’re all individually draped over different pieces of furniture in the Spellman Mortuary parlor.

It’s comfortably warm and silent until Mary says,

“Is this the wrong time to suggest—”

“Yes,” Hilda says even as Zelda says,

“No.”

They all exchange a look.


End file.
